It seemed so ludicrous in any way to pity the inhabitants of the
place, and yet I dimly saw that none of them could possibly continue
there. But I soon saw that there was no question of advice, because I
had nothing to advise. To ask them to be discontented, to suffer, to
inquire, seemed as absurd as to ask a man riding comfortably in a
carriage to get out and walk; and yet I felt that it was just that which
they needed. But one effect the incident had; it somehow seemed to draw
me more to Cynthia. There followed a time of very close companionship
with her. She sought me out, she began to confide in me, chattering
about her happiness and her delight in her surroundings, as a child
might chatter, and half chiding me, in a tender and pretty way, for not
being more at ease in the place. "You always seem to me," she said, "as
if you were only staying here, while I feel as if I could live here for
ever. Of course you are very kind and patient about it all, but you are
not at home--and I don't care a bit about your disapproval now." She
talked to me much about Lucius, who seemed to have a great attraction
for her.
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